


three times for the holy ghost

by sceptick



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, The Youngblood Chronicles (Music Video)
Genre: Bloodplay, Hallucinations, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-19
Updated: 2014-02-19
Packaged: 2018-01-13 00:52:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1206781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sceptick/pseuds/sceptick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patrick’s hands are deft and nimble, flicking through pages of stanzas, pausing on one before rejecting it.  They’re as pale as the rest of him, fine-boned, and there’s something about the way he moves them that’s oddly captivating. Pete watches through half-lidded eyes. He’s so stuck on them he nearly misses the first streak of red they leave behind; he blinks, looks back, and there – a crimson trail cuts through the words he’d scribbled onto the back of a receipt -- <i>cue all the love to leave my heart // it’s time for me to fall apart</i></p><p>“Patrick,” he says, voice hoarse. Patrick glances up, first to Pete’s face, and then down to his own hands; his eyes widen. He lifts his hands into the air and inspects them. Blood glistens on his fingertips and begins to trickle down, thin streams of red down the sides of every finger. They trace bright lines across his palms. Pete’s breath is caught in his throat, a physical barrier, and he can’t breathe, he can’t speak. He can only stare.</p>
            </blockquote>





	three times for the holy ghost

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for porn battle for [dzzyondreams](dzzyondreams.tumblr.com), with the YBC prompts: blood, biblical, body, but unfortunately didn't finish it in time. However, that gave me time to have the marvelous [whatimages](whatimages.tumblr.com) beta it up for me, and I owe her a lot of thanks for that <333
> 
> Additional warnings to what is tagged: first off, this is bloodplay that occurs within a hallucination, so it is 100% unsafe. Do not try this at home. Additionally, there is implied cannibalism at the beginning and the end, as per canon. There's also some mild painplay and D/s undertones. Finally, this fic plays heavily with religious themes (as the title implies) and is therefore probably very blasphemous! Don't read if that's not your deal.

_Women dance around him, pouring a heady red wine into his mouth, and he raises a hand to one but the tug and sting of a needle makes him pause. He blinks at the pain.  For a moment, the feast in front of them is gone and all that’s left is_ meat; _uncooked and uncarved organs, lungs and intestines spilling across the table. In front of Pete is what looks like half a heart, the ventricles fluttering feebly like there’s blood yet in them to pump. He blinks again and it vanishes. A woman with blue and yellow dust high on her cheeks leans past him to cut a piece out of the cake that now sits in front of him. She raises it to his lips, and the lights of the candelabra flash in his eyes, blue and silver and gold; Patrick stares at him from across the table –_

Patrick stares at him from across the table, his expression irritated but fond. “Pete,” he says, “are you even listening to me?”

“Huh?” Pete shakes his head. Everything is blurry at first, everything but Patrick, but then the details settle into place around him. They’re in Pete’s living room, with familiar white walls around them and sunlight streaming in through the blinds that cover the large windows facing eastwards. Patrick’s on the couch, his forearms braced against his knees as he leans in towards Pete. Pete kneels on the ground across the coffee table from Patrick; spread across the smooth wooden surface between them are sheets and sheets of lyrics with chords scribbled on in red ink in Patrick’s handwriting.

“You’re out of it, man,” Patrick says, reaching across to tap at Pete’s forehead. “You okay?”

Pete shakes his head, and it clears some more. “Yeah,” he says. Memory filters back to him: Patrick leaning down to jot a correction to the chord progression that would match _silent film stars stuck in talking cinema life // let’s fade away together one dream at a time_ ; Patrick’s voice over the phone, talking almost faster than Pete can follow about new music for new words and feeling it down to his bones, how close they were to finding _it_ , to finding the briefcase where everyone else they knew had failed; and back, further, further, he remembers the first time he ever whispered to Patrick, quiet so no one else could hear him, “I think it’s going to be you. If it’s going to be anyone, it’s going to be you.” He remembers how Patrick had squeezed his fingers tight and said, “It’s going to be _us_ , Pete.”

Here and now, Patrick frowns. He tests Pete’s forehead with his palm, then runs his fingers through Pete’s hair, which is curled softly. He’d showered earlier and forgot to straighten it when Patrick arrived.

With Patrick’s touch, the world feels like it’s finally stabilized under him. “Seriously, I’m fine,” he says, batting Patrick’s hand away with a snort. “Just daydreaming. You know, it’s your own fault for being so dreamy, Patrick.”

“Fuck you,” Patrick says. He rolls his eyes. “Look, if you’re not serious about this, Pete –“

Pete’s heart stutters to a halt; his breath hitches in his chest. “I am, Patrick. Of course I am.” He’s so serious about this it might actually kill him.

Patrick eyes him, wary, and Pete hates that he’s responsible for that wariness. He hates that it’s been almost two years since he and Patrick have written together, and he hates that that’s his fault too. Most of all, he hates that anything he’s ever done could have made Patrick think that there was ever a time, or there ever would be a time, when Pete hasn’t been totally, heart-stoppingly serious about what they do together. About who they are together.

“Patrick,” he says, and it’s all there in his voice, probably, raw and ragged with it. “This is for real. I’m for real, okay, I want this more than – than anything.”

Patrick inhales sharply. His eyes dart across Pete’s face, and there’s something familiar in his gaze there. A heat, a weight, and Pete burns under it.

“Okay,” Patrick says, and he licks his lips. “Okay.”

Pete clenches his hands in his lap until the nails of each finger dig into his palms. “Okay,” he repeats.

The light shifts; the windows are open behind the blinds, which sway in a sudden breeze, and Patrick’s face is suddenly illuminated with thin stripes of sunlight. He doesn’t seem to notice, though. He just keeps staring at Pete. Then, with a smile, he says, “Yeah. Let’s write some music, man.”

He leans back over the table, his hands sifting through words like a dowsing rod seeking water, like a panner seeking gold. The real gold is in those hands, though, Pete’s been saying it for years. Not that Patrick’s ever believed him. 

Patrick’s hands are deft and nimble, flicking through pages of stanzas, pausing on one before rejecting it.  They’re as pale as the rest of him, fine-boned, and there’s something about the way he moves them that’s oddly captivating. Pete watches through half-lidded eyes. He’s so stuck on them he nearly misses the first streak of red they leave behind; he blinks, looks back, and there – a crimson trail cuts through the words he’d scribbled onto the back of a receipt -- _cue all the love to leave my heart // it’s time for me to fall apart_

“Patrick,” he says, voice hoarse. Patrick glances up, first to Pete’s face, and then down to his own hands; his eyes widen. He lifts his hands into the air and inspects them. Blood glistens on his fingertips and begins to trickle down, thin streams of red down the sides of every finger. They trace bright lines across his palms. Pete’s breath is caught in his throat, a physical barrier, and he can’t breathe, he can’t speak. He can only stare.

“Damn, this hasn’t happened since high school,” Patrick says, tilting one hand slowly to one side and then the other so that the lines of blood criss-cross over his palm.

Pete snaps out of his daze, and reaches out to take Patrick’s hands in his gently. He draws them closer to him until he can see the damage better. The pad of every fingertip has been rubbed raw until the skin broke, and Pete winces in sympathy. He recognizes these wounds.

“Back when I first started learning guitar for real, just after you met me,” Patrick says. It’s unnecessary, because Pete remembers, of course he remembers. Still, there’s a low, hypnotic quality to Patrick’s voice, and Pete doesn’t interrupt. “I went too hard. I wanted so badly to be good at this, you know? I practiced constantly – maybe not more than I did when I learned the drums, but more often.”

“Yeah,” Pete says, finally finding his voice again. “I had to band-aid these up in my mom’s garage, man.”

Patrick laughs.

With Pete holding Patrick’s hands flat and level, the blood pools into Patrick’s palms, mountain rivers feeding into valley lakes. Hazily, Pete thinks that from above they look punctured, like wounds going straight through. Patrick’s captivating hands, pierced and pinned.  Some of Patrick’s blood trickles between them; there’s a cool wetness slick against Pete’s fingers, and his mouth is so dry.

Patrick wouldn’t think it – Patrick wouldn’t _ever_ think it – but this is Pete’s. Pete did this. He took Patrick off of drums and told him the music needed him, and Patrick bled for him.

Struck by a sudden impulse, Pete lifts Patrick’s left hand. He presses a kiss to each fingertip, and then he does the right. Each kiss is close-mouthed and light, but he can still feel the wetness against his lips; a little even slips back, and without thinking about it, his tongue flicks over his teeth, tasting it.

When he looks up, Patrick is watching him, a hint of a smile playing around the corners of his mouth. “Thanks,” he says.

Pete shrugs. He feels too hot, and a little like he’s been cut right open – all his innards showing, nothing and nowhere to hide. He clears his throat. “Well. I don’t think I have any band-aids in the house today, so – oh shit, _Patrick_.”

“What? What?” Patrick meets Pete’s panicked gaze, then glances down at his own hands like he expects new wounds there. As he leans forward to inspect them closer, frowning, blood spills free from the cut that’s appeared high on his forehead; it trickles down his brow with the pull of gravity, dripping into his eyes behind his glasses.

“Oh, fuck,” Patrick says, raising a hand to touch his forehead. He sounds more bemused than worried, but Pete’s got him covered on that front. Heart pounding, he shoves the coffee table to one side – thank God for cheap-ass furniture that weighs next to nothing – and scrambles forward to kneel between Patrick’s feet. Despite his terror, when he reaches for Patrick, it’s gentle. Every touch is fleeting. He cups Patrick’s chin, brushes his knuckles over Patrick’s cheek, before finally, delicately ghosting his fingertips over the wound high over Patrick’s left temple. He swallows hard. It drags against every inch of his throat, which is tight with fear and something more, something unnamed.

Patrick wipes a hand under his left eye and it comes away red with the blood that’s dripped down. He stares at it for a moment, then at Pete. There’s more blood smeared against the bottom edge of his left lens. He searches Pete’s face for a moment, then rests a calming hand on Pete’s shoulder. “Pete, Pete, hey. It’s okay. It doesn’t hurt, Pete.”

“What?” Pete says, the word coming out small and breathless.

“It doesn’t hurt,” Patrick repeats. “I don’t feel a thing, Pete. It’s okay.”

Pete stares up at him helplessly, and then memory hits him: an icy night and a harrowing crash and Patrick after, shaking but giggling with adrenaline, a splash of red across his forehead. It was their first tour. Everyone had been fine – Patrick’s skin hadn’t even been scarred, and Patrick scars really fucking easily.

Patrick squeezes Pete’s shoulder, and Pete finds he can breathe easy again. He stares up at the cut. It stretches almost three inches across, just below Patrick’s hairline, above his left eye, and blood trickles out sluggishly. Head wounds bleed easy, Pete remembers. He runs his fingers through Patrick’s hair, and Patrick hums and closes his eyes. Carefully, then, Pete traces his fingers just below the cut itself, wiping some of the blood away, smearing some more further across Patrick’s brow. Pete stares at his own fingers, crimson now like Patrick’s.

He stretches up on his knees, and presses a gentle kiss against this cut too. He stays there for a moment, eyes closed, Patrick’s skin warm against his lips. Then one of Patrick’s hands wraps around Pete’s neck, drawing him down to eye level.

Patrick stares at Pete with an unreadable expression. Pete holds his gaze, but a shiver runs down his spine and he flushes hot when he thinks about how he must look – hair rumpled, and Patrick’s blood staining his lips red. There’s a fire building in his gut, tight and hungry, that he’s pretty sure isn’t appropriate to the situation, but he doesn’t have time to think about it. Patrick smiles suddenly, a bright slash of a grin, and leans in to kiss him full on the lips.

Pete freezes, then melts. Patrick’s mouth teases over his, tongue flicking out to taste Pete’s lips ( _to taste Patrick’s blood_ ), and it’s as exquisite as it is agonizing. It’s nothing and everything Pete’s always thought it would be. He opens himself to Patrick, and Patrick breathes into him, his tongue sliding gentle and slick along Pete’s with a low groan.

Then he groans again, sharper, and flinches. Pete pulls back immediately to find Patrick staring down at him, eyes wide and surprised. His hand leaves Pete’s shoulder to clutch at his side, which has begun to bleed through the soft cotton of his t-shirt.

“That one hurt a little,” Patrick says, breathless. There’s something else underneath, though, something dark that sends a flash of heat streaking through Pete.

“Let me see,” he says. His voice is ragged, and his hands shake as he reaches for the hem of Patrick’s shirt. Patrick nods, and Pete lifts it up and off of him.

There’s a cut stretching across Patrick’s left side, just below his ribs, spilling blood down over Patrick’s stomach in sweeping arcs. It’s bigger than any of the other wounds. Pete hovers a hand over it, but he pauses.

“It hurts?” he asks. The words come out breathless, almost eager. He doesn’t know what he’s _doing_ anymore, but _God_ –

He looks up at Patrick, who’s got his lower lip between his teeth and is staring right back down at him with dark eyes. “Yeah,” Patrick says, similarly breathless. “Yeah, kinda. But -- it’s okay. You can touch it.”

Pete swipes his tongue over his lips and nods. In the low light, it’s almost unnoticeable, the way his fingers shake as he smoothes them over the skin of Patrick’s stomach, then up, up, to where the skin splits. He deliberately ignores the way his cock is pressed hard against his jeans.

He doesn’t know this wound. He’s never seen it before, and he finds himself almost fascinated by this. He inspects it carefully, taking in the clean edges, the length of it, the way the hard red cuts across the soft white of Patrick’s belly. He traces along it with the pads of his fingers, learning it for the first time, and listens to the way Patrick’s breathing hitches, speeds up; he feels that too, in the way Patrick’s body moves under his touch. He wonders if this wound would taste different than the others because this one isn’t Pete’s doing.

Patrick’s fingers brush through the hair at the back of Pete’s neck, and Pete looks up to meet his eyes. “It’s okay,” Patrick says. His voice is hoarse and his eyes hooded. “You can kiss this one too, Pete.”

Pete stares, then nods slowly. He presses Patrick’s knees further apart until he can kneel between Patrick’s thighs, one hand on each. He glances up at Patrick quickly, checking. Patrick looks like he’s barely breathing, a flush riding high on his cheekbones. The muscles of his shoulders and arms are tense, and Pete looks down to see Patrick’s fists clenched on the edge of the couch cushions, his knuckles white under the smears of drying blood.

Pete exhales harshly. He curls a hand around Patrick’s waist and ducks his head to press his lips just below the cut. He draws his mouth down the length of it, tracing the wound but not touching it, his lips slightly open so blood smears over them. He can taste it with each shallow breath.

Patrick arches under him with a tight, high noise when Pete dares to lick at the edge of the wound, and Pete moans low in his throat, near-silent. He’s wound so tight he could just die. He presses in closer, until his chest is flush to the vee of Patrick’s legs, and he rests his forehead against Patrick’s stomach. He can feel blood streaking across his forehead, and Patrick’s cock hard between them.

“Patrick,” he says, little more than a whisper, “Patrick, can I, can I –“

“Yeah,” Patrick chokes, “Yeah, Pete, come on, do it –“

Pete fumbles at the button and zipper of Patrick’s jeans, yanks them down his thighs along with his underwear, bunches them around his ankles. Patrick is so fucking hard and Pete’s self-control is shot – he leans in with a desperate noise, wrapping his lips sloppily around the head, his eyes falling shut at the first touch of hot skin under his lips. The couch creaks as Patrick slumps back. One of his hands comes up to wind in Pete’s hair, thumb stroking down over Pete’s forehead. It drags through the blood smeared there in the gentlest of touches; it feels like a claim, like a benediction. Pete moans softly and takes Patrick deeper.

Pete’s never had a whole lot of finesse – when it comes to anything, really, but especially giving head. The way Patrick’s writhing above him means it probably doesn’t matter though. Pete draws up, hollowing his cheeks around Patrick’s cock, then presses back down, sloppy and wet and so hot he could die. He can’t get enough. He relaxes his throat as best he can, goes that little bit farther, and Patrick _keens_. Pete opens his eyes, straining to look up. Patrick’s head is thrown back, and he’s arching and twisting in the effort not to thrust up into Pete’s mouth; every motion tugs at the wound stretching across Patrick’s stomach, makes fresh blood well up and spill over down his skin. Pete moans low and desperate, and Patrick loses it, his hips bucking up until his cock presses deeper, pushes against the back of Pete’s throat. Pete’s eyes go blurry with sudden tears as he chokes. Then he brings himself back under control, relaxing his muscles until he’s loose again, so Patrick’s cock can slide back easily.

“Sorry, sorry,” Patrick says, his voice high and raw as he struggles to stay still, “God, _Pete_ –“

Pete runs his tongue along the underside of Pete’s cock and Patrick whines, trembling. Pete slips a hand under Patrick’s hips and presses them up, pushing Patrick deeper into Pete’s mouth.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Patrick breathes. He sounds reverent, and he runs his fingers shakily through Pete’s sweat-soaked hair. “Yeah?”

Pete’s mouth is kind of busy, so for an answer, he glances up at Patrick through wet lashes, presses his palm against his own cock through his jeans. He moans, high and thin, and Patrick curls forward with an answering groan, his hips thrusting up shallowly into Pete’s mouth. “Fuck, fuck,” he says, panting. His fingers twist tight in Pete’s hair, just this side of painful, and Pete pushes hard into his own palm because it’s so _fucking_ good.

Patrick drops back into the couch, head thrown back so the arch of his throat catches the light. He thrusts up carefully, testing, and when Pete takes it easily, he does again, faster and rougher. It’s perfect, it’s so fucking perfect, Pete’s mouth _waters_ with it. Patrick’s panting, every exhale coming out as a hitching moan. He looks like he’s dying, sprawled back in the couch, shaking and bleeding and staring blindly up at the ceiling, his eyes glazed over and mouth slack and open. The light haloes in his hair, glints in the blood that stains his brow, and Pete forces himself down further the next time Patrick thrusts up, forces himself to take all of it, to take Patrick into his body until they’re one.

“Pete, Pete, Pete,” Patrick chants, his voice thin and reedy, and his thrusts are nearing uncontrolled now, arrhythmic and sloppy and shallow. His body is tight under Pete’s hands. He’s about to come, Pete realizes, and the knowledge rushes through him, hot and dizzying; he slides a hand into his jeans, curves it around his cock, and _he’s_ about to come too, God – Patrick keens, thrusting up wildly, and Pete swallows around him, wet and just on the verge of choking, and –

_\- the cake is  rich on his tongue, and from across the table, Patrick smiles at him. Candlelight dances across the cuts and bruises that cover his face. Pete smiles back, light-headed and dazed. He’s slipping between dreams, but as long as Patrick is happy, then Pete’s happy; he would do anything for Patrick._

_A woman lifts a cup of red, red wine to Pete’s lips, and he drinks._


End file.
